


A Hundred Ways to Say ‘Angel’

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Fluff, I don’t think anyone is ever going to love me this much, M/M, Slice of Life, character habits, crowley is absolutely besotted, ineffable husbands, terms of endearment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 09:03:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21268502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: Words are sneaky things, and often they come to mean more than originally intended. So Aziraphale becomes ‘Angel,’ and soon enough Crowley realises that he is in love with him and it’s too late to stop.





	A Hundred Ways to Say ‘Angel’

Crowley has to admit- he started calling Aziraphale ‘Angel’ because his real name was simply too long, and Crowley- or Crawly, as he was known then- was a lazy bastard.

He calls him Angel because that’s what he is, and it’s a means of keeping things impersonal, of defining the lines between them. _You’re Angel. I’m Demon. Let’s leave it at that._

But words are sneaky things, and often they come to mean more than originally intended. So Aziraphale becomes ‘Angel,’ and soon enough Crowley realises that he is in love with him and it’s too late to stop.

It isn’t ‘baby,’ ‘darling’, ‘sweetie,’ or ‘love,’ but it is close enough, and for the next few thousand years, it will have to do.

Aziraphale is ‘Angel’ throughout the years of their Arrangement. He is ‘Angel’ during the years spent looking after Warlock. He is still ‘Angel’ when Crowley, so desperate that he cannot think straight, attempts to leave for Alpha Centauri. And he is ‘Angel’ as they sit together on a bus stop bench after thwarting Armageddon, a bottle of wine shared between them.

And now, as the world goes back to the way it was but their relationship changes, Aziraphale remains ‘Angel’. They don’t have to hide it anymore, and Crowley can call him anything else, any of the sweet and pretty pet names that have been invented over the years, but old habits die hard, especially for a demon.

So ‘Angel,’ Aziraphale stays.

It’s ‘Angel’ in the morning, cheerful at breakfast, and ‘Angel’ at different times throughout the day, and ‘Angel’ when he whispers goodnight; and sometimes, even, ‘Angel’ when he rolls over in his sleep and wraps his arms around Aziraphale, and Aziraphale likes to stay awake long enough to catch him say it.

“Angel,” whines Crowley whenever Aziraphale breaks a kiss. “Angel!” he laughs, when Aziraphale tells a funny story. “Angel,” he calls when Aziraphale wanders away from him at the farmer’s market, and sure, Crowley can always follow his scent, but there is something reassuring about having someone turn around and come back to you when you call them.

“Angel?” says Crowley, when the same thing happens at the grocery store, aisles and aisles of canned food between them.

“Angel,” he murmurs, face buried in the soft fluff of Aziraphale’s hair, as they curl up in the dark of Crowley’s favourite movie theatre.

“Angel,” he groans, embarrassed, when Aziraphale fusses over one thing or another in public.

“Aaangel!” Crowley sings out, waltzing through the bookshop door with a box of chocolates. Aziraphale is meant to have the whole box, but he insists on sharing it with Crowley; still unable to believe, until now, that anyone could be so generous with him.

It comes out in so many more ways and tones than Crowley can keep track of; an annoyed growl, a teasing chirp, a low purr. “Angel,” he sighs softly in between kisses; and “Angel,” he says, muffled, when Aziraphale pulls him into an unexpected hug; and “_Angel_,” he gasps, impressed and aroused at the touch of Aziraphale’s lips on his neck and his hands everywhere else. Because by now Aziraphale knows how to touch him just the way he likes it, or even in ways Crowley didn’t know he liked it before; and Crowley, experienced as he is with falling, cannot help but tumble again and again.

And sometimes the world can grow too harsh for even an angel’s heart to forgive, and Aziraphale’s shoulders slump hopelessly. “Angel,” is all Crowley can say then, still not sure how this works- do I rub his back? Do I kill whoever upset him? Do I brush it off? “Angel?” he says softly, hearing Aziraphale sigh sadly in bed in the dark for one reason or another. “Angel,” he reproaches firmly, interrupting one of Aziraphale’s tight-fisted rants about the injustice of it all.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale breathes, and he laces his fingers, trying to calm down; “I got carried away.”

He is back to his serene self mere seconds later, but Crowley says, “I know. It’s because you care so much.”

He should have known better than to think Aziraphale would leave it. Of course, his angel is stubborn and clever, and rather than end wars with his flaming sword or extinguish deadly diseases with a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale does his best with the powers he has left.

He opens the doors to his bookshop and in come the lonely, the confused, the misunderstood. In come the dreamers and the seekers and quite a few rebel types that Crowley can’t help be fond of. No one ever leaves with a book, of course, but though they go empty-handed, they never remain empty-headed - or empty-hearted, for that matter. The shop is where they go to read the books and little by little, lives are changed.

Crowley realises this and looks at Aziraphale and he says “Angel,” in awe and adoration, and Aziraphale smiles at him from behind the counter.

Not bad for a principality.

“Angel,” Crowley says, voice soft, his head on Aziraphale’s chest as they lie on the couch in front of the fireplace.

“Angel,” he stammers when Aziraphale surprises him with breakfast in bed, and “Angel!” he exclaims, as Aziraphale feeds him a crepe, because there’s no need for that; but Crowley lets himself be fed anyway.

“Angel,” he scolds, when Aziraphale tries to interfere with his houseplant-care methods.

“Angel?” Crowley says, “You ok?” when he brakes too hard and Aziraphale lurches in the passenger seat of the Bentley. (“I’m fine!” He squeals.)

“Angel,” he mutters, waiting for him to come out of the bookshop, foot tapping on the pavement impatiently. But he’ll wait for Aziraphale as long as it takes, he’s waited longer before, and he doesn’t mind falling over and over again because he knows Aziraphale is there to catch him. In his arms Crowley finds grace, he finds forgiveness; all the things he thought had been lost to him and all the things a demon should be barred from. Aziraphale showers them on him without a second thought, so generous in his affection that Crowley doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. But he delights in every sunlit smile, in every sweet kiss, in every old-fashioned word or expression, “jolly good,” and “buck up,” and ”dear boy,” and even “oh, bebop”; he falls for mugs of cocoa with angel wings and tiny round gold-rimmed glasses and yes, eventually, the smell of old books, if not the words in them. He falls for the sound of Aziraphale’s breathing as they spoon in bed and the sound of his voice when he reads aloud and the smack of his lips after a particularly delicious pudding. And Crowley isn’t even ashamed of it. Call him soft, call him whipped- he is in love with an angel, the angel loves him back, and Crowley would rather burn half the stars out of the sky than see Aziraphale deprived of what he wants.

He finds himself falling again, tonight, in this sticky-floored pub at this tiny table clutching a bottle of cheap beer, watching Aziraphale destroy the local contestants at trivia night with a confidence he’s never wielded before. “That’s my Angel!” he yells, pounding his fist on the table when Aziraphale advances to the next round. But he can tell that Aziraphale is holding himself back so the others can take a guess, so that the game gets a little more interesting.

“Angel,” coaxes Crowley under his breath, because he doesn’t want Aziraphale to be nice, he wants him to win.

And win he does, to thunderous applause.

Aziraphale blushes furiously, and grins wider than an ocean, and makes his way back to their table with a little spring in his step. It’s not because he’s surprised at how well he’s done. It’s because he’s rarely ever heard such appreciation before. Crowley just stares at him, his brilliant bastard of an angel, and can’t take his eyes off him as Aziraphale slides into the seat in front of him and beams and says “Well that was fun!”

“Angel,” is all Crowley can say, “have I ever told you how much I love you?”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come @ me (literally) on Twitter @stan_gaiman. Feedback appreciated, GIFs of David Tennant always welcome.


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